A Matricidal Tale of the Biggest Sinner

The August rains wreak havoc across many parts of Asia, uprooting millions who stay closest to earth. These hapless masses, occupying just a tiny shelter and a few cattle, have hardly any role in degrading the pristine slopes of their natural armour and in corroding ecological immunity, still they suffer the most. The behemoths, whose rapacious juggernaut rapes the natural resources, hardly get affected directly. The geography of a plush cocoon in a high rise may save them, but the stinking, suffocating atmospherics of an asthmatic earth, with lungs hardly functioning without trees, will come to lay its evil, chuckling grip on their plump neck-tied necks. Let them have air-purifiers, as they may brag about it. But how many times you will have your funny oxygen toy with you. Will you use it even while shitting and fucking? Well, if you do, then poor plunderer let me remind you that you make yourself a prisoner.

The naked, raped slopes fall crying testimony to their rape and plunder. The spiteful rivers cry out the tale of mankind’s scourge. The glaciers fall with the majesty of grand old men killed by their own grandchildren out of criminal neglect. Many species become extinct and the last of them take a final breath with a curse in their eyes for the man and his kind. The grandest trees fall telling another tale of agony and tragedy. It’s mother earth’s big, loud, pinful cry, you damn fools. 

Mother Earth’s lungs are burning. As the fresh, verdant, lively, life-giving woods get charred to lifeless ash, the mankind has taken one more step toward the inevitable doom. The lungs of earth, the Amazon forests, supplying 20% of the total oxygen to the mother planet, are turning to smouldering char and dead ash. Nobody seems to be bothered. It hardly qualifies as serious international news. The golden haired boss of the world and a small, plump Romeo, bursting at his skin’s seams, shaking hands to take a break from their respective follies pleasantly startles the planet. The message reaches everywhere from the hungriest bellies in the remotest hamlets in Africa to the well-fed rats in the gutters of the financial mega-hubs housing the dens of lies, conceits, exploits and plunder. But the lung of mother planet burning and collapsing hardly qualifies to be a news-studio worthy beat.

The modern civilization appears to be too solution-oriented. It believes in grafts and transplants. It’s taken as a hallmark of technological prowess. Isn’t it funny? I mean just having to pursue solutions for the follies that we are knowingly committing. It’s outrightly fatalistic. It just fights the evil-effects of the well-proposed and efficiently implemented policies and plans. Why doesn’t it just show innovation in being with the natural mechanisms that support human life? Why does it put all human potential in first deliberately destroying its overall home and then use institutions, NGOs, armies, research institutes, medicine, innovation and planning commissions to plan on a bigger scale to undo the self-inflicted harm? It is simply as fatalistic as a snake eating its own tail to survive. The poor thing assumes that it’s moving on the path of survival. Little does it realise, it’s progressing on the trail of its own annihilation.

So, as the news channels and those who matter waste their lung-power in school-boyish scuttles and slips, the pristine flora and fauna in the most luscious natural part of mother earth burns to lifeless ash. To the land-monger modern civilization, a clear path is more important than a clump of trees. The issues of trees and environment are left for the future generations to handle as they deem it fit. Basically, we are showering the so called parental love and care on our children to leave them suffering in the concrete gas chambers a few decades down the line. There cannot be a graver and more short-sighted version of self-seeking love.

The Real Prison

You know what, institutions are the mammoth whirlpools, which suck individuals into their all powerful innards. By institutions, I mean the systematized, soulless machinery to achieve dark, power-hungry, ambitious motives—even though a lot many of them pass off as the needs to run the world. The institutions of despots, dictators, mafia, business magnates, hidden heavyweights pulling the strings, the intelligence and spy agencies, politicians, NGOs, and many more. These are the black holes that absorb their own light, hence keeping them hidden.

Those who operate there lose their souls, their sense of right and wrong, as a strange sense of ennui grips them, making them sleepwalking jombies. The institutional juggernaut reaps its crop, while the individual clogs, levers, pullies, nuts and bolts just perform their duties mechanically. Institutions have strange hypnotic powers to put vibrant hearts and independent minds to put them under the magic wand. The constituents operate like lifeless bottles on the conveyer belt in an assembly line in a factory.

Even stones change to, slowly though, to the cooing calls of season and weather over decades. The institutions do not. They adapt though to the changing circumstances. However, the core philosophy stays the same. And long after the cog is retired, and regains a fraction of his soul, and sees the grease on his hands, only then he realizes what he has been through. Now he can listen to his heart. Now his mind can help him see beyond the factory wall. It does not, but, change anything in the world. Nor it can even if the retired cog tries. All it gives is a guilty bruise to an ageing heart and a sad feeling that life could have been spent better beyond the walls of the institution. 

Ajit Dobhal in Afghanistan

In order to consolidate the non-military Indian rebuilding efforts in Afghanistan, the suffering soil of the lost paradise there needs Indian boots now. Modi sahab listening! Modi chacha ji, it will help Tau Trump also. He is very cranky and pissed off right now, especially after the Greenland fiasco.

Well, the Indian PM is now well known, in fact famous world over, for doing lot many things, which we see happening for the first time. So, why not Indian boots in Afghanistan to restore the rule of law there? It's not that it will help Afghanistan only. It will directly help India in Kashmir also. Violence in Afghanistan and Kashmir share a subtle anatomy. I don’t think there is any doubt about this poignant chemistry. Just peel off the upper layer, use some common sense, and there you see the bitter juicy reality.

So, why not go into the den itself to contain the scourge. A little icing on the cake, it will cheer up Tau Trump also. He is very moody and unpredictable. You may find him having Iftar with Imran Khan if you leave him alone to suffer with this irritation. Modi Sahab listening? One more thing: by having Indian boots in Afghanistan, you get a strategic location to twist both the right and left ears of the naughty all-rounder boy.

History gives a little opportunity now and then. There is a little opening for India to consolidate its position now—after all that rebuilding efforts within our limits, which unfortunately Tau Trump finds almost inconsequential to the puny extent of just building a library somewhere in the war torn country—by redefining its association in Afghanistan. Tau Trump is willing presently. He seems to have bitten more than he can chew, so needs munching jaws to support the mouthful. If irritated further, who knows, you may have, God forbid, naughty all-rounder boy's boots there, which will be worse.

I know the skeptics will sound a warning about the irresolvable puzzle that Afghanistan is, suitably giving Russian and American examples. But aren't things managed finally by someone? The Indian PM, being an astute human resources actualizer, can definitely count upon Dobhal Sahab. The modern version of Acharya Chanakya has definitely more to offer than assignments like managing Post-370 Kashmir. Modi Sahab count upon him to manage Afghanistan with Indian boots in the once paradisiacal country.

If the whole idea still seems too preposterous and unworkable, go there at least as goddamned UN peacekeeping boots. Graft the American led NATO forces with a UN peacekeeping mission. The boots will remain the same, with the addition of Indian boots of course, and it will not create a paper revolution in India by the opposition. Moreover, beyond all the stratagems, the poor country needs a peacekeeping force only.

The Mother

Vivian Richards: “Test father, One Day mother and T20 their children” One of the greatest cricket players of all times has a big point here. I but beg to differ a bit slightly, or may be not so slightly. My common man’s corrected version would be: “Test mother, One Day father and T20 their children”.

Test is the genesis, the prolonged furnace in which the real cricketing destiny is forged. So shouldn’t Test be called the mother? Given her soulful, bordering on most selfless version of love seen in nature, contribution in formulating a new life, involving emotional and physical contribution before conception, and later in the form of irrigating the new seed with her own blood, and still later in 24 by 7 care and concern, when her own individuality melts and takes the shape of that little vulnerable life, doesn’t she stand closer to the prolonged cricketing game of agonies and ecstasies spread over the five day version of the game? So Test definitely is the mother! I have no doubts. Ask mother earth, how much of divine stillness and poise is needed to allow a new seed to sprout from its earthy womb!

Father is the One Day version, definitely. He is moderately rash, adventurist and huffs and puffs for a day. No wonder, his contribution might seriously come close to only one fifth of what a mother does for her children. No insults meant for all the fathers out there. But kindly have a close look at the story of your children’s rearing up, and you will realize the mothers have been out there like a slowly smoldering warmth, keeping the tiny shapes with the prolonged glow of her care and forever-existing duties. Fathers have a privilege of playing, tiring though, swashbuckling one-day innings and hot blizzards of fiery spells of bowing and rolling dives in the field. It has but its concurrent fun, this play of brawn and show of spirit. But the classic contours of a mother’s travails are spread out over a broad time and space, like some elegant tussle at the Lord’s on some autumn evening. Her efforts touch the horizons and mix with misty insignia of godliness.   

Well, no issues about the children being the vagrant, rampaging, arrogant, disobedient, running off the line T20. Effervescent, unorthodox, fiery, revolting, as many mishits as hits during the funny adolescent idiosyncrasies. We can spare our words from elaborating on the evident jocularity.

The Angry President

An angry Trump skipped lunch and like a pissed off kid raising a ruckus about going to school cancelled his Denmark holiday. Not being able to purchase a future's prime location, and present's last hideout away from the mankind creating concrete jungles (Greenland), to change its status from nature's estate to real estate, I hope there aren't broken windows in the White House. An angry businessman is scary man! It's understandable, there can't be a bigger loss for a businessman. My sympathies with him for his mood getting spoiled. And God save the dining set, bedside mirror, housekeeping staff and even officials in the office. All of us are mother earth's kids. But the tantrums of the fattest bully among the famished mass of we poorlings can be very testing. I pray to almighty that there is a surge in President's business to make him forget about the loss!